


Blood, Drugs, and the Dead Bitch

by FleshDust



Category: The Strain (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Blood Drinking, Dark, Dark!Vaun, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Medical Procedures, Menstrual Sex, Not Canon Compliant, POV First Person, Painful Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Apocalyptic, Psychological abuse (past), Rough Sex, Self-Hatred, Self-Indulgent, Vaun Lives, matricide (past), murder (past)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-19 19:27:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14879780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleshDust/pseuds/FleshDust
Summary: She wasn't sure if it was the drugs or the loneliness or the constant criticism of her dead mother. But who gives a shit when the world is going to hell?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a piece of self-indulgent trash that I decided to write. Will likely consist of one or two chapters, three max. As usual, it'll be dark and not at all flowery or romantic. The non-con warning is for dub-con. Hasn't been beta-read, so any mistakes are my own. Kindly point them out to me if you find them.
> 
> P.S., I just have a very filthy obsession with Vaun.

There was an irritating tapping sound somewhere, disturbing my sleep.

Really, really fucking irritating.

The four milligrams of Xanax I'd taken before I went to bed in the afternoon made my movements sluggish and shuffling and the tapping only ceased when I shouted a few choice epithets and a promise of getting there soon.

I fumbled a bit with the door handle in the fading light before remembering the warnings and procedures that Setrakian had hammered into me for exactly this type of situation. My hand stilled and I leaned closer to the door.

“Uhh,” I gurgled, stupid in my Xannie haze. “Who is it?”

After a moment of silence, a voice laced with unnatural dual harmonics replied.

“Billie Holiday.”

_Oh goddamn you Setrakian and your love of jazz._

Still, it made me stifle a stoned giggle.

_Oh goddamn me and my love of drugs._

I unbolted the door and peered outside. The power in the building came and went, electricity overall had been spotty since the explosion, even at this distance from the epicenter. But the flickering light allowed me to see the strange being outside my door.

Vaun.

He had been to see me twice before. Apparently, their crew, or whatever the fuck you'd call them, used to have a bona fide CDC physician until the doc went MIA and left them without whatever care he had been able to provide.

And then Setrakian had remembered me. The first year medical student, selling her mother’s carefully hoarded jewelry in his shop after that narcissistic harridan finally, _finally_ died. After that, I'd simply dropped med school like a hot potato, no longer needing to keep her off my back.

I hadn't even gone to med school to make her proud, or because I wanted to. It was just to keep her incessant, toxic criticism and weepy histrionics to a bare minimum. And as a plus, I could easily avoid her phone calls because I was “studying”.

But it wasn't like even med school was good enough. To her, there was always, always something that I wasn't doing right, something that she just had to needle me about.

I'm pretty sure she hated me.

I would have been kicked out of med school had I not dropped out after she croaked. Thanks for the life insurance policy, you abusive, controlling bitch. I'll make sure to spend it all on shit that you wouldn't approve of.

Yeah, my relationship with my mother wasn't the best. That's what tends to happen when you realize that you've been raised by a narcissistic sociopath who resorted to abuse and manipulation when the fruit of her loins didn't do everything her way. Who considered her offspring an extension of herself, rather than their own person.

In any case, Setrakian had asked me, with his nasal, raspy voice, if I would be willing to provide rudimentary care for his comrades now as the result of them going to public clinics or the Freedom Centers would be undesirable, to say the least.

While I didn't want to really know the details, I knew they were into some Rebels versus the Empire resistance shit that I made a point of avoiding. All I really wanted to do was to get high on weed and benzos in my shitty apartment and watch the world outside descend into rotting anarchy and die.

I had pointed out to Setrakian once that I didn't even make it through the first year of med school, to which he replied that beggars can't be choosers, offering me a crooked, resigned smile that looked like it didn't make an appearance very often.

But the old man was always kind to me in his own, gruff way, and he and his lot did trade goods for my services, as it were, allowing me to stay off the streets apart from the occasional trip to my dealers.

The notorious New York City of the nineties had nothing on post-collapse New York City. Post-collapse, post-nuke, post-apocalyptic, whatever you want to call it. Shit was brutal outside.

So, here was this Vaun guy once more. Setrakian had mentioned that they had some type of “crossbreeds” in their ranks (the biological possibility of this evaded me completely), and that sometimes, one of them may show up and require care.

Or blood, a maximum of a hundred milliliters per month, if that. I was paid very well in goods for my services as bloodbag-slash-doctor-who-didn't-know-what-the-fuck-she-was-doing.

I had provided Vaun with my blood the two other times I'd seen him. The first time, he was accompanied by Setrakian, so that the crossbreed wouldn't frighten me and to explain that his kind did not carry the worms that turned people.

Vaun wasn't frightening, at least not when compared to the shit I'd seen in the streets. Or compared to the woman who gave birth to me, for that matter. He was a quiet figure, all in black, with a sharply featured, moon-pale face and dichromatic eyes in red and black. He said little, only ejected his stinger when prompted. When he was done, there was a silent thank you, and nothing more.

If nothing else, he was biologically interesting. He didn't frighten me the second time either as he appeared at my door a couple of months later. Same song and dance, stinger, ouch, a little woozy, thank you and toodles for now.

I was a vending machine, but that was okay when I opened the duffle bag and discovered all the canned goods he had brought me. But I was going to make sure that he did not bring me anymore canned asparagus.

Fresh asparagus braised in butter? Yum.

Canned asparagus straight from the can? If there is such a thing as evil, canned asparagus is pure fucking evil. Canned blasphemy.

There are some things that not even the end of the world will make me eat.

But now, as I opened the door and stepped aside to allow Vaun entry, I saw immediately that feeding was not on his mind tonight. Several tendrils of pale steam arose through the black clothing on various parts of his body. His side, arms, back, legs. An almost imperceptible sizzling noise reached my ears.

“What the hell happened?” I blurted, the sluggish cloud of drugs still blanketing my brain.

“Silver shrapnel,” he said curtly, striding into my living room and seating himself on the couch with a rustle of heavy fabric.

Some of his strange, white blood was leaking out of whatever holes he had sustained, staining the pleather couch, but hey, it wouldn't be the the first bodily fluid on that piece of shit.

I had gotten the thing at a thrift store and even though pleather cleans up pretty well, I was fairly sure the thing would light up like a toddlers’ finger painting under a blacklight.

The mechanical manner of my inner almost-doc took over, and it always annoyed me when it happened. I wasn't a fucking doctor, and I never would be.

_Take that, dead bitch._

Nevertheless, I told Vaun to get his clothes off while I got my kit. In other words, my toolbox full of surgical and non-surgical implements that I had found handy.

 _Beggars can't be choosers,_ Setrakian told me inside my head.

At least I had remembered to boil all the tools the other night, something that I tried to do every week, whether they were used or not. Then again, I wasn't sure how susceptible a strigoi crossbreed was to staphylococcus or pseudomonas and other infections that plagued humankind. Still, better safe than sorry.

Speaking of safe, I really hoped I wasn't too high still to perform back alley extractions on him. The lull of the Xannies was still there, but I thought I should be able to handle it.

When I returned to the living room, Vaun had obeyed my orders, perhaps a little too well. His black paramilitary clothing and gear was now a dark lump on the floor.

Here in my small living room, stood a buck-ass naked crossbreed.

“Um,” I managed, trying not to let my eyes drift to the most obvious bits.

His white skin seemed almost luminescent in the hazy light. Sinewy and slender body, crisscrossed with scars. His weird red-and black eyes turned to me, shadowed by the protruding brow.

The elongated mouth that traversed the lower half of his face opened, and a dry rattle emerged, likely from the stinger that I knew, from experience, nestled in his chest.

“Here,” he said then, sitting down on the couch again, indicating a few wounds on the side of his thigh. “Get on with it.”

He seemed oblivious to his nudity, and I knew that I should too, but how easy is that when you haven't seen a naked male in who knows how long?

I approached slower than I really needed to, opening my tool box, pretending to look for something as I sat on the couch next to him. A metallic scent of old blood, leather, and stagnant water filled my nostrils, and I recognized it as his.

It was a combination of smells that should have been disgusting, but I realized that I was more messed up in the head than I thought when I found that I liked it.

Goddamn brain, scrambled to hell by drugs and fear and the dead bitch.

Still, I rummaged around nervously in the tool box until I managed to find the forceps and flashlight that I was looking for. Vaun hissed slightly when I dug the stainless steel instrument deep into the wounds on his thigh.

It took some doing, but I finally managed to dig out four pieces of shrapnel out of the various cuts. The largest one was perhaps an inch, whereas the smallest one was smaller than the fingernail on my pinkie.

A couple more were lodged in his calves, and goddamn if I didn't have to kneel between his bare legs to get one that had embedded itself into his inner thigh.

He was strangely hairless. I was not able to spot one little downy hair anywhere on his body, and believe me, I got a good look. As I pulled out the shrapnel from his inner thigh, I couldn't help but to steal a glance at the place I had been so desperately trying to avoid.

Even his cock was white as snow. He was limp (couldn't really blame him for that, what with the forceps digging around in his body and all), but it reminded me of carved marble statues.

This creature was more appealing than he had any right to be. My head was messed up. I hadn't been laid in two years. I was still high. And he was male and very interesting in some sick way.

The dead bitch would have been horrified at the notion of me finding a creature like this appealing. I needed to become a doctor, find a handsome doctor to marry, then throw away all those years of education and start pumping out babies. And, let us not forget, my future husband “cannot be a _person of color,_ honey. That would be… _unseemly_.”

She was a peach, wasn't she.

Once I had finished and the extracted silver shrapnels were sizzling on my coffee table, I had to make another round with rubbing alcohol to clean each one. Once that was over with, I told him to put his pants on again (I didn't need more distractions), and he obliged without comment. He wore no underwear, I noticed.

Fucking commando.

It took me another good hour to dislodge the rest of the shrapnel that he indicated on his upper body. Some were as small as grains of sand, or in other words, a pain in the ass to get out.

Apart from another hiss or a silent grunt, Vaun said nothing. By the time I had finished patching him up, closing some of the larger cuts with sewing thread (beggars can't be choosers, yes), I was exhausted, and I could tell that he was, as well. The dusk outside had become night.

The pile of silver on my coffee table had stopped sizzling, whatever chemical reaction that caused the metal to interact with his blood had apparently run its course.

Vaun started to get up to retrieve the clothing for his upper body, but I could see him sway for a moment before he sat back down with a heavy thudding sound.

“Hey,” I said as I cleaned the tools I had used, “do you sleep?”

“Sometimes.”

Informative fellow.

“Well, you can sleep on the couch. I can tell you're a bit out of it.”

“Alright,” he replied.

“Thank you. For helping me,” he added after a couple of seconds.

“No problem,” I said. “Now, if you don't mind, I gotta go wash up, then I'm going to bed.”

Vaun had settled down on the couch by the time I had gotten enough grayish water out of the coughing pipes to have a shower long enough to at least wash his white blood off me. I padded past him with my bare feet, a huge men’s t-shirt enveloping my body and a joint cradled in my hand. I opened the living room window slightly.

I lit it with the lighter that I kept on the windowsill and held my breath, and when my lungs felt like they were going to collapse, I blew out a blue-gray cloud of smoke into the night. Some screams sounded in the distance and I wasted no time in dulling my senses further with my illicit plant material. Sometimes, the screams were really hard to handle.

“It smells like pine sap,” Vaun growled from the couch, startling me.

“Yeah, but it's ditch weed. Better than nothing, though. Want some?”

I offered the joint in his direction, but he simply stared at it.

“I doubt it would have an effect, but thank you,” he said just as I was starting to feel like the biggest stoner on this side of the millennium.

“Oh,” I said and continued smoking my ditch weed.

He simply laid down again, and remained still like the marble statue he reminded me of. I finished my joint, feeling the warming, somehow echoing effect of the weed envelop me. As I crept past him toward the small hallway that connected my kitchen, living room, bedroom, and bathroom, he opened his eyes, startling me again.

I was guessing that no one had been around to teach him social decorum. Dude just stared until you started to feel like a total freakshow.

“Well, goodnight,” I mumbled awkwardly, to which he simply nodded and closed his unnerving eyes again.

I tumbled into my bedroom like some hobbled idiot and dug myself into the mounds of sheets and blankets. The weed, while not the strongest, took the edge off whatever fucked up things that nibbled through my brain with little needle-teeth when all was silent.

People dying. My bitch mother. The world going to hell, and there I was, doing nothing about it.

I had little idea if Vaun was actually asleep or not, but I could hear the intermittent rattle of his stinger. It made some worrying things stir a bit in my belly, but it was not long until all was forgotten as I slept.

Until at some point, when I awoke in a startled panic to find him crawling up my prone body with a rapacious growling noise. When his abnormally heated weight settled on me, I couldn't even scream.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

As soon as his body was astride mine I could feel quivering jolts of arousal rush down the lines of my groin and gather there before I was even fully awake. At the same time, panic thrashed in my throat and scrabbled in my skull like a diseased, trapped rodent.

In the semi-darkness, Vaun’s skin glowed nearly white.

My first instinct was to fight as my primitive lizard brain took control, despite my sick excitement at the turn of events, despite the fact that I could feel my nipples pebble tightly against his chest.

My hands went to his shoulders to push him off, but I wasn't used to fighting, and he wrenched them aside easily, pinning my wrists on either side of my face. My fingers folded into fists that rendered my knuckles as pale as his skin.

He said nothing, simply tilting his head back slightly to look at my face. A nearly imperceptible raspy purr escaped his throat.

I can't imagine the mess I looked right then, still riding the drooling coattails of my high, greasy, pale face and my hair… well, let's just say that I hadn't had much luck in the shampoo and conditioner department, so I had been washing my hair with bar soap.

Wasn't exactly ready to be cast in a L'Oréal commercial.

His face was unreadable, except for his large glossy shark-eyes. They were staring pure want at me.

All creatures have three basic drives, as far as I am concerned. Fight, feed, or fuck. The latter was the most desirable option for me, hands down. But for all I knew, I could have been targeted for the second one.

He forced my legs open with his angular hips and settled between them, our bodies separated only by fabric. I hyperventilated in short snatches of breath as I felt the heat of him, his stiff cock, clothed by the heavy black cargo pants.

So maybe not the second one, then.

The seams of the rough fabric, distended by his erection, dragged harshly against me as he moved and sent a deep electrical charge from between my legs to my belly where it twisted itself into a tight knot of anticipation and fear.

He was still eerily silent except for the seemingly involuntary rattles and grunts that issued from his throat as I squirmed beneath him.

But as soon as his hand left one of mine to reach between our bodies, I took a chance again, arching my back to throw him off balance. I've no idea why, it just seemed like it was something that I was supposed to do, even though I was weirdly not at all opposed to what he was doing.

Maybe I wanted to fight him a little. Maybe I wanted him to hold me down and fuck me. I wanted him to hold me down and _hurt_ me.

My efforts both did and did not work, causing only an avalanche of tangled bodies and bedding to fall to the floor.

We tumbled down onto the dirty carpet where Vaun managed to maneuver me onto my stomach, the weight of his slim body surprising as he used it to hold me down. I could feel the air in my lungs escape in little wheezing puffs.

He pushed my face down into the worn fibers with an unforgiving grip at the back of my neck. I felt him straddle the backs of my thighs, the abnormal heat of his body traversing them and there, between his legs, the heat felt scorching.

My brain wondered, absurdly, if he'd give me first degree burns if he fucked me.

I felt his hands in my hair, his fingers scraping along my sweaty scalp to tangle in the moist strands. He leaned over me, nosing my hair roughly and the short exhalations made a thousand little needles prickle along my scalp.

His breath smelled like rust and decay and primal violence.

“You,” he said, the continuation clipped by a wet, feral snarl, “... you smell like blood… and flesh. And life...”

“Huh?” I coughed out with the side of my face pressed into the floor, dusty grit from the carpet crunching against my teeth.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he declared, and I could hear the stinger whine in his chest, a strange counterpoint to the gravelly baritone of his voice.

With those words, he straightened and grasped the hem of the long, baggy shirt that I slept in. In one furious motion, he had yanked it above my waist and I felt his fingers at my hip, hooking into my simple cotton underwear.

He started to pull on them, and I felt the fabric tighten uncomfortably into my side, digging into the soft flesh of my hip until the gray piece of well-worn cotton gave up the ghost with a sad tearing sound. He yanked a second time to rip the other side of the band, which gave up just as easily in response.

“Vaun, fuck… stop… fucking stop, _stop!”_

Why did protesting turn me on? Why did it seem to excite him more?

My protests were multi-natured, because it was another thing I was supposed to do and the panic in me was in fact, very real, no matter that resisting made me want it more.

Another facet of it was due to pure vanity. My legs and armpits were fuzzy as all hell, not to mention the downstairs parts. Female grooming isn't much of a priority after the world has gone to shit. Forget Brazilians.

I could hear my dead mother’s voice in my head.

_Shave your legs, shave under your arms, keep yourself trimmed nicely down there… oh honey, put on some mascara and rouge, you look dead._

__

__

_How will you ever find a handsome man with that haircut?_

_Don't you think you should lose a few pounds? At your age, I was about twenty pounds less than you._

_You'd be much prettier if you did blah blah and blah…_

_Only a B in Organic Chemistry? I know it's hard for you, honey, but you need to do better…_

You know, all the supportive things that a mother should offer her child.

Vaun offered no response to my protests, simply uttering a wordless clicking-clattering noise that echoed with the soprano squeal of his stinger.

Carelessly, he tossed the scrap of fabric over my head and it landed a few feet in front of me, the flickering street light outside filtering through my blinds, allowing me to see that the cotton was stained dark and wet.

My period. It all clicked then. I had gotten my period during the night and that had somehow driven him into some kind of lust-fueled lunacy. He was a fancier of red wings, this one. Was that weird, or was it hot? I wasn't really sure.

His hands descended on the halves of my ass, crushing the rounded flesh until I winced and spreading me open.

Embarrassment burned hot on my cheeks, adding to the scratchy feeling of the carpet against my face. I was probably bloody and smelly and it wasn't like the gardener had been around lately, and...

“... ahh,” he groaned behind me, sounding almost drunk, seemingly oblivious to any of my own concerns.

His voice, while quite strange under normal circumstances, had deepened into an animalistic, guttural bellow that actually did scare the shit out of me. And it made my body feel so swollen with lust that I thought it'd turn itself inside out and he'd just end up rutting with my steaming organs.

I could feel thick dark menstrual blood slipping out of me and dull cramps like snakes coiling deep inside. And with the cramps throbbed a dense, saturated ache of a wholly different kind.

My face was wet, I noticed. Tears. Of anger, confusion, fear, shame?

Maybe they were tears of joy. I hadn't been fucked in so long that the mere thought of having a cock deep inside of me made watery saliva run freely in my mouth.

And not only that, but being fucked by a creature that would have given the dead bitch an aneurysm if she hadn’t already been dead. It was just too goddamn perfect.

_Well, mom, he's not exactly a person of color, is he? More like a person of non-color. And I'm about to let him fuck me raw._

Vaun relinquished his hard grip on me with a growl and there was no mistaking the sound that followed. It was the metallic, snickering whine of a zipper being undone too fast.

“I have to,” he breathed above me suddenly, and then, only partly apologetic: “... I’m sorry.”

For a few moments, there was only the sound of our hastened respiration, amplified in the otherwise silent room. A few gunshots sounded somewhere far away. Then there were screams and hungry roars in the night again.

“... ah-yes… do it,” I hiccuped through my tears. “Just fuck me. Please.”

There was another stretch of what I could only assume was stunned silence until I heard him utter a discordant snarl that sounded so starved that for a moment, I wasn't sure if he was going to acquiesce to my request or just drink me.

But then he used his knees to knock my legs open. His rough hands descended on my ass, clutching and spreading me again with brutal force that would leave bruises. And then, _oh fuck,_ I felt his cock pushing against me.

It was warm. Too warm, way too warm to be human. Almost burning.

There was a brief warning in my mind about diseases and pregnancy and I didn't even know if whatever human functions that he had could impregnate me, but it was too late anyway.

All I managed to do was utter a moist murmuring noise that was something between protest and consent before he tilted his hips and was inside of me with a painful, beautiful bursting sensation.

His rattling bellow that escaped him as he entered me reached through his flesh and into mine, reverberating through my loins, through my limbs, tightening my nipples even more and crackling along my brain stem with primal arousal.

Still, a loud sob managed to rip itself out of my throat. His cock was thick and too warm, it was too much, too fucking much, I was not used to this.

I was embarrassingly wet and slippery, but it was too much, and there was a inexorable stretching burn, filling pain that amplified the cramping already there, and I couldn't help but cry into the carpet with the bliss that it carved inside of me.

He hissed behind me, pausing for a moment to shuffle my thighs wider with his knees and yanking my hips aloft to get deeper, his cock grinding through blood and fluids and swollen flesh that screamed in response to the intrusion.

I could feel it in my guts when he hilted, a dark, exquisite kind of hurt, and all I could do was to let out a strangled noise as his slim hips wedged hard against my backside.

He fucked me ruthlessly until my thighs dripped with blood and my belly ached from his violent thrusting. After his first few thrusts, I found my voice again and cried, each noise cut off when his cock was shoved inside of me and forced the breath out of me.

He didn't stop or even hesitate when my agony was evident. I didn't want him to. I wanted him to fuck me, hurt me so badly, ruin me, gouge everything out of me until there was nothing left and then I could fill the husk that was left behind with a better version of me, manufactured to my specifications.

I could smell him, the scent of clotted old blood and leather and water gone to rot. I could smell myself, musky fluids and female blood and saline sweat. And between us, the oppressive, miasmic stench of animalistic sex.

And despite my raw discomfort, a sticky type of pleasure was thrumming in my midsection, gathering in my groin with little slimy, tickling pseudopods that pulsed and swelled until I felt my innards writhe.

“Vaun,” I sobbed, tears making my eyelashes gummy. “Vaun… don't stop, don't hold back… _hurt_ me...”

I think he was surprised when I came as he managed some particularly brutal movements, his cock stabbing savagely enough that I wondered briefly if he had actually damaged me.

I didn't give a shit.

I wailed as unsettling sensations cut through me with an orgasm that threatened my already dubious sanity. Something throbbed so violently behind my eyes that I thought I'd pop a vein in my already fragmented brain.

I tightened so hard around him that I could feel that he had difficulty thrusting despite a new warm flush of viscous moisture between my legs that was streaked with my blood.

The drag and clutch of my flesh did not stop him, he just redoubled his furious efforts and proceeded to pound me until his movements started to get twitchy, his skin grew hotter and a series of hissing noises sprayed droplets of warm spittle across my back.

He leaned down into me as his body started to jerk and amidst his garbled groans I heard a high-pitched hissing of air. Something scratched at the back of my neck and made my skin radiate gooseflesh from that area and outwards.

Only when it squirmed around my neck, fat and sleek and pulsing and hissing, talons tangling in my sweat-soaked hair, did I understand that it was his stinger.

Before I was able to panic about his feeding appendage hugging my neck, I was forced to swallow a huge lungful of air and expel it with a cracked moan as one last thrust gored itself against my cervix. Vaun pushed deep, digging all that hot flesh into me until I was scratching the carpet against pain that made my vision blank.

Horribly hot, thick seed filled me as he came with a broken warbling noise. I could feel him pulsing inside of me as the last of his spending was sluggishly jerked into me.

He stayed pressed against me for a moment, quivering and his cock softening, his seed starting to slowly trickle out of me as it did so. He relinquished his bruising grasp on my hips and I thudded boneless down onto the carpet. The stinger that had encircled my neck withdrew without piercing me, leaving a trail of viscous slime behind. I heard his jaws crack dully as he gulped the appendage down again.

The dirty fibers coughed up little puffs of dust around me, like those mushrooms that expelled clouds of spores when you stepped on them. As he withdrew, fresh air stung my abused flesh. I shivered after the heat of his body had gone.

My eyes wanted to close and I wanted to sleep. Inside of me, there was pain and the afterquakes of pleasure and prickly embarrassment, but also a type of deranged peace that the benzos and weed could not give me.

My muscles were sore but slack, and they protested as I carefully turned to my side instead, ignoring the mess of seed and blood that slipped out of me at the movement.

Vaun was sitting on my bed, dimly lit by the dirty street lights outside, legs spread. His pants were still opened, the zipper flayed to either side of his groin. The spent, white cock that had just been inside of me was smeared red, hanging there rather comically. His elbows were resting on his knees, his hands slack between his thighs, shoulders hunched and head down. His pale skin still looked slightly luminescent.

He lifted a strange, troubled gaze to me as I kicked sluggishly at some threadbare sheets that had tangled themselves around my ankles.

I could pretty much read that expression without a second look.

Shame. Satisfaction. Guilt. Uncertainty and slaked desire.

Oh, I knew all about that.

He thought that he had fucked me against my will. Granted, there had been a certain non-consensual component to the whole thing, this was true.

He had hurt me.

And he had pleasured me.

He had hurt me as a punishment for something he wasn't even aware of, and pleasured me as a reward for the same thing.

Reward and punishment for what I had once done. And I had needed both; deserved both.

The dead bitch, and how she was a dead bitch because of me, and because I couldn't take her shit anymore.

I was pretty sure that she hated me, but I hated her, too. And I loved her, and I wanted her to love me, though she probably never did. So I had done something about it.

Succinylcholine is not something that's detected with regular toxicology screens. And I knew how to inject into her through a perfectly placed brown birthmark nestled right in the crook of her elbow when she was drunk out of her mind on expensive, amber-golden Glenlivet.

_You learn useful things in only one year of med school, you vile hag. I hate you and I hate that I loved you._

There was no response at all from my memories of her. Maybe now the dead bitch was finally, finally silent in my head. Maybe I had finally horrified her enough and broken enough of her rules that she'd shut up for good.

Our little interlude had somehow silenced all the problematic little gray horrors that chattered in my mind each night, each with a voice scented by her lipstick; forcing me to down benzos and drag weed because I wasn't strong enough to deal with them otherwise.

Vaun looked at me with his red-and-black shark eyes, his mouth set in a long thin line that started to part like fabric ripping. But before he could speak, I just waved my hand at him, motioning for him to help me up.

Whatever he was going to say was left unsaid as he helped me up and tugged my shirt down over my lower regions. I swallowed a chuckle when he stuffed himself away into his pants and closed them.

One thing seemed rather universal with males, limp cocks looked kinda ridiculous. When flaccid, they looked like dead slugs of varying sizes. In this case, a fat, albino slug on the rag.

Yeah, those the kinds of thoughts that tended to accompany the coattails of my highs. Stupid shit that made me giggle.

I gave him a careful grin and he only blinked, his eyes wide and black.

“Are you alright?” he asked, with some hesitation.

“Yeah, I replied,” and then: “I think we both need to wash. And I'm hungry. If you're hungry too, can offer you two hundred mils today. Sound good?”

I extended my hand towards him, waiting for him to take it.

He stared at my outstretched hand for a long while, and then his dead eyes met mine. He nodded silently and grasped my hand with his long, slender fingers. His touch felt like fire. As we walked to the bathroom, I was surprised how loud the silence was, outside of me as well as inside of me.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, just a bit of self-indulgent porn. Hope you indulged with me. If not, oh well, you may slap me around a little.


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